What a distressing contrast there is between the radiant intelligence of the child and the feeble mentality of the average adult. ~Sigmund Freud
My dearest E.,
Yes. You are radiantly intelligent. Your father and I marvel at your developmental rate each day. You surprise us with your radiance, taunt us with your intelligence. We are dumbfounded at times; gleeful and proud at other times.
You recognise sounds. Associate “woof” with a dog (particularly, our 4-year old Rottweiler, Roxy); “meow” with a cat. Sounds of cars and motorbikes passing by. You recognise displeasure in your father’s voice when he clears his throat very loudly, or just say “Emilie!” in his booming, stern voice. You love “Baa Baa Black Sheep” (your grandfather loves to sing you this song when you’re sleepy and ready for beddy-bye)- and can sing almost in tune to it, except that you can’t say “black sheep” yet, and substitute everything with “Baa baa baa baa“. It’s too delightful to hear. Your eyes light up when you hear “Twinkle twinkle little star“, instrumental or otherwise- you shake your little tush, regardless of whether you’re sitting or standing, and you clench and unclench your fists high in the air, mimicking blinking stars. Your grandparents taught you how to do that.
You interact with your grandmother with such ease and fluidness, even if she speaks to you completely in Thai. I marvel at that. You’re certainly turning into a gracious princess. But only when you’re spoken to in Thai.
Otherwise, you’re a terror around the house. Your toys and games are constantly littered all over our living room floor. You don’t spare our remote controls (TV, DVD player, ASTRO & fan) as well. No cup is left unturned. No tissue paper is left unshredded to bits. You squeeze out my brand-new facial foam from its squeeze tube. You pick at my wallet and credit cards. You throw a few building blocks in a paper bag that I’ve given you, with an assortment of things like a key chain, a small figurine, my empty powder compact case, and you sashay around like a socialite out to tea. I have since stopped picking things up after you, mainly because you’re so energetic now that I can hardly keep up.
My little Einstein. “The Little Einsteins” is, incidentally, one of your favourite TV programs. You’ve learnt to twist your parents around your little finger. Feign innocence. Pretend to cry. You’re adorably manipulative in your baby ways. I’m worried it will shape you as a person- being too manipulative is cruel and unkind. Uncle Calvin has predicted that you’ll break some boys’ hearts when you grow up, because you’ll be so beautiful and self-possessed and they won’t be quick enough to keep up with you, and your intelligence. But that’s a long time away, sweetcakes, so let’s not think of such unpleasantries.
So I sit in the hall long after you’ve gone to bed, picking your toys and cleaning up the hurricane-like mess you’ve created, smiling to myself in a dream-like state, yet marvelling at the angel that you are that God has sent to us.